


I Just Don't Think I'll Ever Get Over You

by thismidnight



Category: Prison Break
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 14:28:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7644547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thismidnight/pseuds/thismidnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sara shares Michael's belongings with their son. Alludes to scenes shown in the trailer for the revival.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Just Don't Think I'll Ever Get Over You

_ i still find pieces of your presence here _

_ even, even after all these years _

 

The box she keeps his things in is no bigger than a shoebox. 

The brushed aluminum exterior hides a heavy-gauge steel lining that is not only fireproof, but the rubber gasket that lines the hinged lid makes it waterproof as well. It had come with a lock, but Sara had never used it. Something about keeping what little she had left of Michael behind a locked door made her stomach turn.

She can’t remember the last time she looked at his things, and that bothers her. For a while she was getting the box down at least once a week, at night, before she went to bed, sometimes even falling asleep before putting it back. But over time once a week became once every two weeks, which became once a month. And now, the best Sara can guess, the last time she looked in here was several months ago, around her birthday.

Today, though, she’s getting into this box with a purpose - she has a new addition. Few things have trickled in over the years. Lincoln has given her a few things here and there, but mostly everything has been there since the day she decided she needed to keep his things safe. 

Lincoln had been the last person she expected to see today, and she had been even less prepared for what he brought with him inside an envelope postmarked from Yemen. She had invited him inside and they had discussed what they thought this meant, if they thought this was real, and if they should believe it. They ended the conversation with Linc saying he was heading overseas and promising to keep in touch, and Sara asking to keep a copy of the photo, which Linc had left, no questions asked.

Now she sits perched on the edge of her bed, the box of Michael’s belongings sitting unopened next to her, the paper with his picture on it folded in her hands. She hadn’t really known what to do with her copy of the picture once Lincoln had left with it, but leaving it out wasn’t an option, not with her son’s curious eyes and hands roaming the house. The box, she had decided, would be the best place for it, at least until she hears back from Linc. As much as she wants to listen to her brain and believe this is just some hoax, that it’s just someone trying to get to them, her heart already knows what Lincoln is going to find in Yemen.

She’s just about to unfold the picture and look at it again, to try and calm the thoughts racing through her head, when a rustling from the doorway gets her attention.

“Mom?” 

With the ease of someone all too familiar with the act of concealing things, Sara swiftly pushes the folded paper with the picture of Michael on it under the box. She looks up at Michael standing in the doorway of her bedroom, his dark hair tousled from sleep, one hand on his face as he rubs the sleep from his eye. 

“Hey,” she says softly. “How are you feeling?” That morning, while she had been getting him ready for school, he had been extra sluggish and pale, his forehead warm to to the touch. She had kept him home and sent him back to bed to try and sleep off whatever bug he might be coming down with. He didn’t complain when she told him to take off his shoes and get back in bed, and he hadn’t woken when Linc had been over earlier, something she’s now extremely grateful for.

He yawns and stretches his arms over his head. “Better.”

She smiles and nods. “Good. Maybe you won’t need to go to the doctor.”

Michael wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. “ No doctor. I don’t want a shot.”

“I don’t think you’ll need one, honey.”

Michael nods and pads into the room, the hem of his blue plaid pajama pants dragging on the floor. He walks over to where Sara sits perched on the edge of the bed and leans against her, pressing his face into her side. She wraps one arm around him and uses the other to tame his bedhead. She stills her hand momentarily over his exposed cheek. 

“I think your fever is gone,” she whispers, as she goes back to combing her fingers through his thick, dark hair. He nods against her. It’s not often anymore he relies on her for support like this. Michael is fiercely independent, sometimes stubbornly, so the times he chooses to be her baby again and seek comfort from her, she obliges him.

He stays pressed against her for a few more minutes before he rubs his face against her shirt and pulls away from her slightly. He finally notices the closed box sitting on the bed, and curiosity gets the best of him.

“What’s this?”

With a jolt, Sara realizes she’s never shown Michael the contents of this box. He’s seen the video his father made, the one Mahone gave her the morning after, but he’s never seen anything that actually belonged to him.

“This…” she begins, unsure of herself, not knowing how to begin. Up until this now, Sara thinks, Michael has existed to her son only as some sort of myth. Someone he’s seen on a video tape, someone he’s heard others talk about, but he’s had no physical evidence of his existence. She’s not sure how to have this conversation with a seven year old, and she trails off for so long that Michael looks up at her expectantly. Simple and honest is how she decides she’ll answer this question and any others he might have.

“This is your dad’s stuff.” 

Michael’s eyes grow as big as saucers. “Really?!”

“Really.”

“I didn’t know we had any of his stuff,” Michael says as he pulls away from Sara completely and climbs onto the bed next to her. He sits down cross legged next to the small silver box. “Can we look at it?”

“Of course we can. Do you want to open it?” Sara motions to the still closed box that rests on the bed between them.

Michael nods excitedly and pulls the box close to him, exposing the folded paper Sara had pushed underneath it. She decides to ignore it, hoping the excitement of the contents of the box will distract her son from asking questions about what’s on the paper. He flips the lid open.

Inside there isn’t much, and Sara finds herself hoping Michael won’t be disappointed. There’s a burned copy of Michael’s message to them, along with the clinic paperwork Mahone had given her that same morning in Miami. Michael’s wedding ring rests on top of the orange pocket square he had worn in his blazer the morning they had gotten married. The letter he had mailed to her while she had been in prison, the one that outlined his original plan for her escape, is folded carefully and obscured slightly by a pair of thick rimmed reading glasses and a bright blue baseball cap. Her origami flower lives in the box now, too, but it’s not immediately visible to her.

“Whoa,” Michael says, peering into the box. “Is this it?”

“This is it.” Sara tells him. She can’t get a good look at his face, so she can’t tell if he’s excited or disappointed.

“This hat is cool!” Michael exclaims, reaching into the box and pulling out the baseball cap.

Sara smiles, relieved, as she watches her son turn the hat over in his hands and run his fingers over the seams. The hat isn’t really cool, she thinks, with nothing more than a strange geometric design consisting of two ovals and lines embroidered on the front. She tries to imagine Michael picking it out, probably at some dusty and forgotten thrift store, simply choosing whatever would hide his face from the authorities and not paying one bit of attention to the design or color. She shakes her head to get the image out of her head.

After a long moment, Sara plucks the hat out of her son’s small hands. He’s just about to protest when she sets it down on top of his head. He scowls at her before he adjusts the hat on his head and goes back to looking at the contents of the box. He picks up the pocket square and the ring clatters against the bottom of the box as he lifts the bright orange piece of fabric into his hands.

“Your dad wore that the day we got married,” Sara tells Michael as he runs the smooth silk fabric through his fingers. She reaches into the box and picks up the ring. “This is his wedding ring.” She holds it out in her palm to her son, and he takes it from her, careful not to drop it.

They go through the box item after item, Michael paying rapt attention to Sara as she explains what she knows about everything, trying to keep her answers short and honest, without having to dive too much into the how and why of their story. There will be a time for her son to know more of their story, but she wants to keep this moment as light as possible.

Before long, they have all of his things scattered on the bed around them. Michael asks about every single thing, and she answers as best as she can. Yes, your dad made that flower for me. Yes, he wrote this letter. Yes, he’s talking about you. No, we never picked a nickname for you. I don’t know when he wore these glasses, your uncle Linc gave them to me and said they were his. Once the questions taper off, they sit quietly for a few minutes before Sara suggests they put everything back up and go try and find something for lunch. Michael nods solemnly and begins placing his father’s belongings back inside the small box. She can tell Michael’s not ready to put these things back up, that he enjoys this little bit of closeness to his father. He has just as much of a right to these things as she does, she thinks. It’s not fair of her to keep them put up in a closet and away from him.

“I have an idea,” Sara says, as she watches Michael gingerly place the reading glasses back where they belong. “Why don’t you keep the hat?”

Michael looks up at her, surprised. “Really?!”

“As long as you promise to keep it safe.” This, she knows, is something she doesn’t have to be concerned about. Michael is meticulous with all of his toys and belongings.

Michael nods excitedly at her. “Of course, Mom! I won’t let nothing happen to it! I love it too much!”

A giant grin spreads across his face as he looks at her, and from underneath the blue hat he looks so much like his father that Sara feels like a vice has suddenly been clamped down around her chest. She almost has to look away as she remembers the last time she saw Michael in that hat, his words echoing closely to her son’s last ones.  _ If anything happens, I love you both. _

She pushes the memory down and smiles at her son wearing his father’s hat. “I’ll finish putting this up,” she tells Michael, patting him gently on the thigh. “Why don’t you go see what we have to eat for lunch and I’ll be right there.”

Michael obliges and scrambles off the bed. Before he leaves the room he thanks Sara one last time for the hat, and then he’s gone into the kitchen to forage for food. She sighs heavily and rises from the bed. She folds Michael’s letter and places it back in the box before pulling the latest addition out from where it remained obscured and out of her son’s sight.

She unfolds the paper and runs her finger over the small, grainy black and white image of Michael. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath before folding the paper back in half and half again, placing it in the box and flipping the lid shut.

She hopes her heart is right.


End file.
